An American in Paris

This is Paris.

And I'm an American

who lives here.

My name, Jerry Mulligan...

... and I'm an ex-G.I.

In 1945, when the Army

told me to find my own job...

... I stayed on.

And I'll tell you why.

I'm a painter.

All my life that's all

I've ever wanted to do.

For a painter,

the mecca of the world for study...

... for inspiration and for living...

... is here on this star called Paris.

Just look at it.

No wonder so many artists

have come here and called it home.

Brother, if you can't paint in Paris,

give up and marry the boss' daughter.

We're on the Left Bank now.

That's where I'm billeted.

Here's my street.

In the past couple of years...

... I've gotten to know

practically everyone on the block.

And a nicer bunch

you'll never meet.

Back home everyone

said I didn't have any talent.

They might be saying

the same thing over here...

... but it sounds better in French.

I live upstairs.

No, not there.

One flight up.

Jerry!

Those are three of my pals.

Etienne, Maurice and Jacques.

I'm their man because

I give them American bubble gum.

I have a lot of

good friends in Paris.

A lot of very good friends.

And I am one of them.

Adam Cook is my name.

I'm a concert pianist.

That's a pretentious way of

saying I'm unemployed at the moment.

I live in the same brick pile

with young Rembrandt.

That's not me.

He's too happy.

I'm here on a scholarship.

Last year, I won the Hackenwall prize

and was sent abroad to study.

That's the eighth fellowship I've won.

And you know something?

I'm getting pretty homesick.

Not only that, but I'm beginning to feel

like the world's oldest child prodigy.

One time I ran out of fellowships

and had to go to work for a living.

I had to stop because

I discovered I liked it...

... and I didn't want to become

a slave to the habit.

It's not a pretty face, I grant you.

But underneath its flabby exterior

is an enormous lack of character.

I like Paris.

It's a place where you don't

run into old friends.

Although that's never

been one of my problems.

Strangely enough, I made a friend

over here once. I worked for him.

His name was Henri Baurel.

You know, the French music hall star?

Do you remember him?

I do, because that's me.

Adam was a fine accompanist.

I wish he were still with me.

My, how nice to be

in the old quarter!

You see?

Everybody recognizes me.

I guess I haven't changed

so much after all.

They've known me a long time.

But now, don't misunderstand.

I don't mean

to imply that I am old.

I'm not.

After all, I am only...

Well, what's the difference?

No, that's not me.

I am not that young.

Let's just say...

... I am old enough to know what to do

with my young feelings.

Right?

- Georges!

- Henri Baurel!

- Henri!

- Mathilde!

Adam?

You used to

sing it a tone higher.

I'm a big boy now.

My voice is changing.

- Shall I come up?

- No, I'll be right down.

Hey, Georges,

some coffee!

Henri, I'm going to

make you an "omelette la confiture".

Don't kiss me.

You'll spoil my makeup.

You look great, Hank.

What're you doing?

Taking injections?

Something much better.

I hear your show's a big hit.

It is, "naturellement".

- When did you get over?

- Last March.

I phoned you,

but there was no answer.

I'd have phoned again, but I was

afraid you might be in.

March? I wasn't in Paris then.

Lise and I were

visiting friends in Juan-les-Pins.

- Some coffee, please.

- What are you working on?

- Same old concert.

- When will you give it?

When I can't figure out

any more reasons not to.

Some coffee, please.

I took Lise to hear

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